


In Loco Parentis

by Pollyanna



Category: Hornblower
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-08-06
Updated: 2006-08-06
Packaged: 2017-10-07 21:38:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/69493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pollyanna/pseuds/Pollyanna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hero.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Loco Parentis

_ West Indies, 1780_

His bare feet were sure on the ladders leading down into the ship, but he stumbled when he reached the orlop deck, so used to turning left to the powder magazine, that he swung in that direction before heading for the cockpit. Although it was night-time it was still sweltering this far down in the ship, and the place stank of blood and other waste. He picked his way round limbs and bodies towards where Doctor Clive stood. He hadn't had any dealings with the doctor, who was on his first voyage. Rumour gave him the name of being stand-offish; not drinking enough in the wardroom and over much when alone in his berth; he dressed too finely when even the captain wore his old uniforms at sea. He didn't look so much the dandy now with his hands and apron stained red, but there was a certain elegance in the fast and regular stitches he made.

"Doctor, sir, the captain is wounded and needs you on deck."

Without looking up, he replied, "If he's wounded, then he can come down here or be brought if he can't walk."

"He has to stay up there. Lieutenant Woodcock is dead, and it looks like the French will try to board, and he can't leave Lieutenant Pendray up there as the only officer."

The doctor kept stitching, but gave one glance towards him. "What type of wound does he have?"

"A big slash, here, in the side." He pointed at his own side, and saw the doctor glance up again quickly. Three more stitches were set, and then he was calling for the man to be carried away. He picked up a few things from the nearby chest, and spoke to the loblolly boy. "Isley, I'll be back as soon as I can. Look among the wounded, and deal with anything you think you can handle. You lad, what's your name?"

"Hobbs, sir."

"All right, Hobbs. Take these bandages, and lead the way."

They emerged onto the deck, where a bright moon illuminated a scene of chaos. The top of the foremast had been shot away and fallen awkwardly in a tangle of rigging across the starboard deck, fouling many of the guns. Men worked with axes to clear it away as a roaring voice directed their actions. Cannon shot fell among them, but luckily the French frigate either had poor gunners or been damaged herself, and the fire was not continuous.

It was obvious where the captain was, but Hobbs went up the ladder to the poop and the doctor followed. The captain was dressed only in his breeches, since he'd been asleep when the French had surprised them. Someone had brought him his shoes, but he hadn't bothered with a shirt while he still had a wound to be tended. In the moonlight the liquid on his side and soaking into his breeches seemed black.

"Fetch me a lantern," the doctor snapped as he carefully felt the captain's side. "Were you shot?"

"No, it was before they got close enough to use muskets. It must have been a splinter or scrap of metal. I just need something to keep it from bleeding everywhere. That's it, men, get number eight clear." The last was bellowed to the deck below.

The doctor was squinting at the wound now, and pushing a probe in, to a hiss of pain from the captain.

"Well, it was a bit more than a splinter, but I can't feel anything, I think it must have passed through." Taking a couple of pads and a bandage from Hobbs, he began to work. "I'll bandage you up for now, and examine it later, if we're both still alive."

The captain snorted. "That's what I like to see, Clive. Pragmatism. Can't abide a man who shilly-shallies. Sergeant Nicholls, take ten of your men and go to the prow. When the French get close enough to board start shooting, volley fire if you can manage it. Good, they've got number eight clear. Pendray, no!" He pulled himself away from the doctor and plunged down the steps to where the lieutenant was getting the gun crew to load the gun. There was an irate huff from the doctor who had just been about to tie off the bandage, and was left with his hands waving ineffectually in the air. He cursed and scurried after the captain. Hobbs was about to follow when he spotted a sword lying on the deck, probably the late Lieutenant Woodcock's. He picked it up and leaning it against his shoulder like a musket, went down the ladder.

" ... grapeshot. We won't have time to reload, and we need to fire into the boarders. One shot won't stop them, but it'll discourage them a mite." There was a flash of white teeth. "Doctor, aren't you finished yet?"

"I would be if you'd deign to stand still a moment."

"Me? I'm like a statue. Hobbs, what in the world are you doing with that sword? It's nearly as tall as you."

Hobbs gaped, astonished that his name was known, and at being actually spoken to by the captain.

"There. I'm finished," interrupted the doctor, before he could think of anything sensible to say.

"Good. Do you know how to use a sword, doctor?"

"Of course I do. Well, I mean, I've been taught."

"That'll do, we need every man we can muster. Hobbs, give the doctor the sword. There you are, Clive. Stand back a few feet, you can mop up any Frog that gets past us. Go on, shoo."

The doctor walked back until he was about halfway across the deck, then turned and raised his sword. With his bloodstained apron and a dazed expression on his face, he looked somewhat demented.

The captain bent down and whispered to Hobbs, "I don't know what he'll do to the French, but he puts the fear of God into me."

At last Hobbs found his voice. "I want to fight too, sir. What can I do?"

The captain gave a lop-sided smile. "You're too little for killing, lad, but I tell you what. Take a belaying pin and go hunker down between the guns on the far side. Hit any feet that come your way. Think you can do that?"

"Aye, aye, sir."

He ran to his place, with the captain calling after him, "Make sure they're French feet! Get ready to fire, Pendray. Get your weapons, men. Stand by to repel boarders. Fire!"

Hobbs was trembling with excitement, or he told himself it was excitement, as he watched the chaos on the deck. After the initial shots, it was all hand to hand fighting, with only the marines on the prow still able to load and fire. Groups of men swayed to and fro, and if a group came near enough he leant out and slammed his weapon down as hard as he could before ducking back. He caught glimpses of the captain who had got hold of a dagger as well as his sabre, and was fighting with both hands. The doctor was retreating towards his hiding place. He wasn't a bad swordsman, but it was obvious he hadn't been in a battle before and fought like he and his opponent were in a duel, almost oblivious to the others around him. Even now there was a Frenchman coming up behind him, and Hobbs dashed out and slammed his pin into the back of the Frenchman's knee. The Frog yelled and spun round with his sword ready to slice, but at the last moment actually looked at Hobbs and turning the sword brought the hilt down on his head.

He woke to the flickering lights of lanterns, harsh strained panting and wordless groans that seemed to suck up all the air. But there were words. A voice, that he thought he recognised, but high and fast as if, like him, its owner couldn't get enough breath.

"... eighteen with relatively minor wounds. Minor, that is, if they don't start to rot in this heat. And I suppose when we get to Jamaica, I'll lose them and half the crew to fever anyway."

But the next voice was his captain's, and that was the same as ever, deep and low, and even though the words he spoke were grave, that echo of laughter, as if life was too grand a game to be taken seriously.

"And if they're to die, that's God's will, and nothing you can do to mend it. It's how a man lives his life that is man's will, and you lived it well today. It's good to have you on the crew, Doctor."

A face came into his view, difficult to make out in the dim light, but with the hair gleaming like old gold.

"And here is another that did well. Are you awake now, lad?"

He opened his mouth to say yes, but it was too dry to form words so he nodded. Another faceless figure appeared, a hand lifted up his head, and a horn cup was pressed to his lips. He drank deeply, the lukewarm water as welcome as if it had been drawn from a cool well. After he was finished, a hand turned his head and touched the bandage there, so he knew it must be the doctor.

"Thank you, sir."

"And thank you, Hobbs. I think you may well have saved my life tonight. I'm in your debt."

The captain whispered loudly, "Ask for his rum ration."

"Well, sir, doctor, if you really mean that. Could you teach me to read and write?"

The doctor sounded surprised when he answered, but not reluctant. "Why, yes, I could. I don't have much to do in the evenings. Well, usually I don't. If you've a fancy to learn, then I'd be glad to."

Hobbs felt his eyes getting heavier, but managed to say, "Not a fancy, sir. I need to read and write to be a gunner."

"A gunner, eh?" and that was his captain. "Well, we'll see."

He ought to answer his captain, but his eyes would not stay open.

"You should go rest, Captain. It may have stopped bleeding, but that's a nasty wound."

"And you should go sleep too, Doctor. But you'll stay up to tend to your patients, and I'll spend the night looking to the ship's hurts. Hobbs here will have to sleep for the both of us."

And that was really an order wasn't it? And he would never disobey his captain.

THE END


End file.
